Bloodspot
by KKBELVIS
Summary: Episode related: SR. Angst Hutch. Mild hc Starsky. Hutch pov. Four months after the shooting and Hutch is sitll having a hard go of it.


Authors note: Thank you in advance for your time and consideration.

It means a lot to be able to share here with you!

Disclaim: Non profit dreaming. Written for fun/hobby/ expression

I do not own any rights to Starsky and Hutch.

BLOODSPOT

By: Karen B.

Summary: MS. Sweet Revenge snippet

Hutch pov.

Warning: For foul language use.

Thank you CC, for sharing your skills and kindness with me!

When Starsky had first gotten to the hospital he was clearly unstable and on the brink of bleeding out. The doctors all said the surgery itself would more than likely kill him -- but they opened him up anyway. Cautious scalpels dug around inside my torn friend. The bullets had destroyed his spleen, gall bladder, half his stomach, and some of his small intestines. There was major damage done, crippling his right lung, heart and liver. They removed the spleen, gall bladder, and half his stomach, repaired what they could and closed him back up in silent hope.

Four months ago, those bullets nearly killed my partner. But those bullets could never kill our love. And those bullets could never destroy our friendship -- nor could those bullets silence a will as strong as my partner's. Starsky made it through, and so did the Torino. Now, I couldn't even bear the thought of him getting so much as a paper cut, and my only wish was to make him and that damn car of his bulletproof

Starsky was recovering slow but sure. Today was Thursday, ten in the morning and I had just dropped him off at his P.T. session. I should've been at my desk doing paperwork, but instead I was perched on the trunk of my car in the police parking garage where it all happened. I passed by here all the time, and the spot had become kind of a magnet. I tried to avoid it. To tear my gaze away from it every day I walked past. Most days I could get away with only a sideways glance to see if it actually was still there. Only, once in awhile I just felt the need to completely stop and acknowledge the spot where glass wasn't the only thing that shattered.

It's a spot that marked where one man's life nearly stopped and another man's soul lay devastated. Where a round of machine gunfire had crashed through glass and exploded through metal, as well as my 'no retreat -- never surrender' partner. Four bullets struck Starsky directly in the chest and only three made it out the other side, before plowing him to the pavement. I did the only thing I could do. I kept shooting at the fleeing squad car, all the while yelling for Starsky. It was broad daylight but you could still see the white tracers from the machine gun pierce the air. My ears were buzzing, yet my mind was fully aware of why Starsky wasn't answering me or firing off his weapon -- it was my heart that couldn't understand. I rounded the Torino so fast, my feet never touched the ground. I never had a problem with vomiting at crime scenes, but when I saw all the blood, saw Starsky's eyes wide open and staring, I thought he was dead -- killed instantly. I'll never forget the chill that shot up my spine. The numbness of shock, or the vibrating in my stomach that felt like a rotting lump of meat forming in the back of my throat. I felt lightheaded, dropped my gun, turned my head and vomited.

Looking at the spot now, you'd never know what happened, unless you were there that day. For most people passing through the parking garage was just that -- passing through the parking garage. It was just a place where you came to store your car. Where crowds of people shuffled back and forth from the building like a parade of ants on a Sunday picnic raid. I glanced around. People were smiling, laughing, some rushing into the building, other's fed up with their job and dragging their feet, some even looking angry. To them it was just a parking lot. To me -- it was an ever-present nightmare. Where the sky was dark and the foggy mist was thick. Where the ground becomes a constant stream of ankle-deep blood, and where the steady beep of a heart monitor -- stops.

I nervously tapped a foot on the bumper, the hot sun bouncing off the chrome making me squint. An unexpected cool breeze picked up and I shivered, as I watched a paper cup, scuttling across the parking lot beneath the chassis of several cars, and then coming to rest against a wheel well.

The nightmare was all around me. In the simplest of things -- I couldn't escape. Reporters didn't even have the decency to wait until the bloodstain was cleared or family members notified, before they rolled their film. In their haste to break the news, they'd forgotten, David Michael Starsky was not only a detective shot down right on police grounds in front of dozens of witnesses -- he was also a mother's loving son. Hearing of her son over the television was devastating, brutal and cruel to say the least.

The shooting had been sensationalized for days, showing the splattered bloodspot over and over, both in black and white snapshots and rolling footage in a dizzying and nauseating way. Finally, the cameras stopped rolling when the lab guys had their go at the spot, and the department janitorial crew came in. They swept away the Torino's window glass, and then pressure washed the bits of torn tan leather, flesh, and blood. All the evidence of that grim day was erased from the cement. Gone was the tight-lipped crowd that had gathered around. Gone was the chaos and mayhem. Gone was the screaming cry of the ambulance. It was all gone. All, but one small dime-sized bloodspot, that no one seemed to notice -- no one but me.

"Evidence," I mumbled to myself, and for a moment squeezed my eyes tightly shut. That evidence was part of my partner.

Looking at the spot, made me feel like I still had to stand on guard. He would never be safe again, not even in our own backyard. That made me furious. Made me want to get a jackhammer and rip up the slab of cement. Or maybe I should take a softer approach. Plant a tree, or dedicate a parking lot bench and have it placed over the spot? Even before I got to work and parked my car, my stomach would start doing acrobatics just thinking about the spot. How could one little bloodspot have so much power and presence over a person's life? I tried to ignore the spot, but it was there, everyday, every night, right in front of my eyes. I walked past it, always careful not to step on it, as if it was someone's grave -- as if it was hollow ground. I figured it'd wear away, and I wouldn't have to look at it anymore, but I soon found out I couldn't ignore it and nothing was going to wash it away. Believe me I tried. One late night when Starsky was still in the hospital, I drove to the station with a flashlight, a bottle of liquid soap and a toothbrush. I guess I thought if I could get that last bit of reminder to disappear, I could somehow recoup what we'd lost. But as much as Starsky and I wanted it, and as hard as we both were fighting, I knew in my heart my partner wasn't going to make it back to the street cop he once was. We both had been changed by the blood that covered the ground. I don't know how long I scrubbed at the spot, but it wouldn't wash away, and I cursed myself. I should have been trying to wash his blood off my hands, not the mother-fucking pavement, but I was too busy tossing my cookies to get my hands dirty. By the time I could stand without barfing,Starsky was on his way to the hospital in a screaming ambulance.

I opened my eyes from the not so distant memory. Four months later and my stomach was still flip-flopping.

From this vantage point, I could still see the spot. It hadn't even faded with all the traffic walking and driving over it.

"Mother fucker," I cursed the spot again. Every time I looked at it, my heart pounded loudly in my chest, my hands shook, and I could almost taste the sour bile as my stomach tried to pump my half-digested oatmeal and sliced banana breakfast back out the way it came in. I took a few deep breaths and concentrated on not throwing up like I had done that day. "You pussy, Hutchinson." I chastised myself for my weakness.

A plan buzzed overhead, as I watched an old lady pushing her walker, the wheels rolling right over the spot. I recognized her; she was Officer Miller's mother. Once a week she came to have lunch with him in the cafeteria. She didn't seem to recognize me as she glared at me suspiciously and tried to hurry it along. I tried for a smile, but she didn't smile back, only muttered something about foul language, and not even being safe in the police parking lot.

I rolled my eyes. 'No kidding, lady, where have you been?'

It's a busy parking lot. People coming and going. Going and coming. It always amazed me, and I thanked whatever greater power was in charge that day, that no one else took a bullet. The incident didn't seem to spook anyone. There was still just as much traffic as ever.

"The incident," I whispered in disgust as I pushed my hand through my wind-tangled hair, and watched Tolliver, a uniformed officer, exit the building.

He worked the nightshift on the front desk, and always looked ragged by the end of his duty. At first, he didn't look my way as he stopped right on the spot. I watched with interest and surprise as his shaky hand pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. Two weeks ago, I had overheard him talking to his wife on the phone. Guess she struck a deal with him. If he'd quit smoking -- they'd spend their second honeymoon gambling in Los Vegas instead of visiting her Mother in Pennsylvania. Tolliver tapped on the pack, and a cigarette stick slid easily out. He lit up, taking a drag and blowing smoke out his nose before he noticed he was busted.

"Hi, Ken. Keep it quiet would you?" He nervously glanced at his cigarette held tight between his fingers. "Calms the nerves," Tolliver said.

For a moment, I felt a flush of anger come over me. I felt all twisted up inside, like a wound rubber band just waiting to snap. I wanted to yell at him, race over and shove him off the spot. He was so casual. Didn't he know where he was standing? I didn't care about his bet or whether he smoked or not. "Ken, you won't tell, right?" Tolliver took another long drag.

"No," was all I could say.

"Take care, Ken." He waved, and this time I noticed his hand wasn't shaking anymore.

I waved back, and watched Tolliver take one last drag, drop his butt near the spot, twist it under his heel and walk off toward his car.

It was then I took notice of my raised hand -- after four months -- it still shook. Maybe I should take up smoking.

Not thirty seconds later, another person wearing a three-piece suit stopped and stood directly on the spot. He glanced at his watch, adjusted the stack of files he was carrying, and put a little more speed in his step. Guess he was in a hurry. I figured him to be one of those crummy lawyer types. The ones that kept taking a dump on all the hard clean -up work Starsky and I do -- did out on the street. So many people stepping on the spot without a care -- made me want to punch them out. Tell each and every passerby what happened here, and why. Keep this up, Hutchinson, you'll be the clown of the station, and your captain will be thinking seriously on shipping you off to some 'pay a dime' sideshow.

I knew something was wrong with me when the department's newest female rookie, a shapely blonde with long legs and eyes the color of the harbor sky, stopped to chat with Tom from records. I'd been meaning to get her name, maybe even her number. As Tom walked away, the pretty blonde applied a fresh coat of pink lipstick. She twisted on her heels, glanced my way, smiled and waved. It was my opening, but I didn't make a move. All I could think about was the fact the heel of her left shoe was now digging into the spot. I couldn't even bring myself to offer a wave back. She frowned, indignantly tossed her hair, and ducked inside the building.

"Real smooth, Hutchinson," I berated myself.

High heels. Low heels. Cowboy boots. Tennis shoes. Tire tread. Male. Female. Young and old. They all walked over the spot as if it wasn't even there. I must be nuts. I wanted so much to have answers for myself, but I'd given up trying to figure out why I even came here.

I was surprised to see a young man wearing a faded Levi jacket stroll by, shoving the last bit of a burrito into his mouth. I sighed, knowing how much Starsky liked to eat that crap and how his stomach couldn't handle it anymore. The few times he tried I'd stood behind him with a hand to his back, wincing every time he vomited and --

"Shit!" I glanced at my watch, and did a double take. "Shit! Shit!" I slid off the trunk of my car. I was supposed to pick Starsky up twenty minutes ago. Yanking my keys from my pocket, I moved quickly, reaching a hand for my car door. "I'm such an --"

"Idiot." I turned around, coming almost nose to nose with my partner. "You always in the habit of forgetting to pick up your partner?" Starsky smacked his gum.

"Hey." I apologetically reached for Starsky's shoulder and realized my hand still shook. I nonchalantly stuffed it in my pocket instead. "I'm sorry, Starsk. Lost track of time. How'd --"

"Huggy." Starsky blew a small bubble, popping it right near my face, and looking somewhat amused. "So what were you doing?"

I gave a shrug as my only answer. Starsky always looked pale after P.T., and I ached for him as I watched him stiffly shuffle to lean against the side of my car. "How long you been watching me? You okay?" I asked.

"Didn't look like nothing to me," Starsky said between chewing.

"You didn't answer my questions, Starsk."

"You didn't answer mine." He cracked his gum.

For the next few tangible minutes, Starsky's eyes searched mine and a worried look cast across his face. I squirmed under his scrutiny. My partner dabbles in photography, and he has a way of seeing the world around him differently than most -- little details that go unnoticed by others. He can see things in me -- things I can't even see myself.

"Hutch, something is up with you. Everybody knows when Ruby puts on a fresh coat of lipstick and waves, you're a shoe in."

"Ruby?" I said in surprise. "Starsky, how do you know her name?"

"Last week, when I told you I needed a night alone --"

"Last Friday? Starsky, you could have told me you wanted to be alone with your date -- you didn't have to-"

Before either of us could say another word, a loud bang brought my hand out of my pocket. In one fluid motion, I took a step in front of Starsky and whirled fast on my feet. I was just about to draw my gun when a hand clamped down on my shoulder.

"Whoa, Hutch, easy, was just a car door slamming."

Realization hit me harder than the fact my partner had already been with Ruby and her lipstick. I shook my head and let my hand fall limp at my side. My brain had known it was just a car door slamming, but my gut and heart had reacted differently. I slumped against the car door and glanced back at the spot. Move too fast and you make mistakes. Panic and you make even bigger mistakes. I had done both and it wasn't even the real deal this time. No machine gun fire, only a car door.

"Damn," I swore softly.

Starsky leaned close and whispered, "Hey, don't worry, partner." He patted my stomach. "You and your allergies wouldn't like Ruby. She lives with six cats, sleeps with them and everything."

I smiled at his attempt. Starsky of all people knew what I was going through.

Starsky looked at the spot then back at me. "Why do you keep coming here? Looking at that spot."

"What spot?" I played dumb as I sorted through my car keys and turned to open the door. I couldn't talk about it right now. I just wasn't ready. "Come on, Starsky, get in the car. Time for dinner and --"

"My little yellow pill," Starsky grumbled, and shifted his stance so I couldn't open the car door. "First -- level with me." He crossed his arms over his chest.

Either Starsky was in a lot of pain or he wasn't budging until I spilled the beans. My vote was for the latter, although I suspected both.

"Fine," I said with as strong an undertone as I could manage. "I knew about you and Ruby and I wanted to cut in on your action, get her to dump you for me." It was a quick lie but a good one.

Starsky's eyes narrowed and I waited for his tirade. He wasn't stupid enough to believe that.

"Buy stock in a Kleenex company-- you're going to need it." Starsky shrugged and slowly made his way to the passenger side and opened the door.

Being a detective, and knowing Starsky, I could tell he was up to something. He never let things go so easily. I opened the door and slid behind the wheel. Starsky had just settled in, and I watched in despair as he took a shuddering breath that brought on a hacking cough.

Thanks, partner," I said, reaching a hand over to cover his. I knew he was letting the conversation about the spot slide.

"You're welcome." Starsky nodded at me. "Let's go, huh, Hutch?"

"Humph," he grunted, as he held his ribcage in place.

"You feeling okay, Starsk?"

"Just tired."

"Guess what you are going to do when we get home?"

"Same as always -- pill, nap, dinner," he grumbled.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

It was Friday and I'd just picked Starsky up from P.T. This time I waited for him, I didn't want a repeat of yesterday.

I glanced over at my partner and my stomach tightened. Starsky was soaked in sweat and his eyes were small. I knew he'd overdone it, and I just wanted to get him home, but he insisted we swing by the station and he wouldn't tell me why.

"You okay?" I asked as I watched him lower his head and roll the stiffness from his shoulders.

"Not bad." Starsky looked up. "I'll be fine, Hutch."

"I know," I lied, and pulled into my usual parking slot. "Here we are. Now what's so important?"

"Come on." Starsky slowly exited the car, being sure to use as little movement as possible. "Don't worry," he said knowing I was watching.

I reached in the backseat for a couple of sodas I had stored in a cooler. I swore sometimes my partner acted as if the bullets that struck him down were made of candy and the bad guys paper.

I got out of the car, and leaned against the trunk. "Here, Starsk, drink this." I handed him a soda. "What are you grinning about?" I asked.

"Thanks." Starsky popped the tab, and pushed back against the trunk of my car.

"Here, buddy, let me help." I held his elbow as I eased him to his perch. "You o--"

Starsky glared at me and I dropped my nursemaid routine. I had promised him three weeks ago I wouldn't smother him, and he promised not to flush his little yellow pill down the toilet. I was having a hard time holding up my end of the bargain.

"Thanks." Starsky gratefully nodded. "Now just watch, Hutch." He pointed toward the spot.

Starsky didn't remember the spot, and it had no effect on him whatsoever. I didn't think he knew how bad it was affecting me -- I thought wrong. For a moment, I struggled to untie the knot that was forming in my gut, as I once again thought about the scattered glass and stream of blood.

I watched in confusion as people suddenly took notice of the spot, bending down and trying to pick it up. Time and time again people would stop at the spot, look down and try to pull it off with first their fingers, then their foot before giving up and walking away in a huff.

"What the hell?" I was still confused, as I straightened, about to go over to the spot and investigate the strange phenomena for myself.

"Hutch." Starsky's fingers tapping on my arm stopped me. "Wait." He shifted one butt cheek off the trunk and dug into his back pocket. "Hmphhh," he groaned, and a flash of pain crossed his face as he searched for whatever it was he needed.

"What's wrong?" I bit my tongue, knowing I had broken my promise yet again -- I just couldn't help myself.

"Nothing." Starsky nodded, his eyes on me as he finally produced what he was searching for. "Just watch," he said between small breaths, as he held up a small tube and waggled it near my face.

I narrowed my eyes trying to focus on the moving tube, finally having to snag his arm to hold it still so I could read it. "Krazy Glue, Starsk?" Dawning came slowly to me, as I glanced back toward the spot. "Oh for the love," I muttered in awe.

I finally noticed it wasn't the bloodspot they were trying to pick at -- but a shiny new quarter. A quarter that wouldn't budge. A quarter Starsky had Krazy Glued right over the bloodspot. My partner -- the softhearted genius.

I sensed Starsky staring at me and rolled my eyes. "You did that?"

"Yep." Starsky took a sip of his soda, never taking his eyes off me. "Now you don't have to be so sad when you pass by 'it' everyday."

I swallowed and struggled to hold back my tears. Not the sappy tears of sorrow, but the tears of a man who knew how much he had in his life, in this man sitting next to him that he called best friend. I kept watch of the spot, unable to break loose of my overwhelming feelings until I saw our captain. Dobey waddled by eating his morning snack -- a box of powdered sugar donuts. He stopped near the spot, and looked down as a huge grin spread over his face. Man, you'd think he'd just discovered a diamond on the ground, not just a twenty-five cent piece. Closing the box and stuffing it under an armpit, he bent down to claim his prize. Try as he might, he couldn't separate the quarter from the pavement. I had to cover my mouth to keep from laughing aloud when I heard something tear. Dobey didn't seem to notice us; he was too busy using his donut box to keep the wind out of his Fruit Of The Looms, as he ducked into the building. I don't know why, but for some reason right then I pictured our captain wearing a toga. Or maybe it was his office curtains.

It'd been a long time since I laughed so hard. I laughed so hard I cried. Tears of joy, not sorrow.

"Ohhhhhh!" Starsky was laughing too, snorting his soda out his nose. "Ohhhhhh," he laughed as he held his side. "Ow, that hurts," he said, but kept right on laughing.

"Easy, buddy," I uttered between my own bouts of laughter and gripped his shoulder. "T-take it -- take it easy."

After a few minutes, Starsky took a few calming breaths and our laughter died down to low snickers.

"Starsk, you're not planning on krazy gluing anything else, are you?"

Starsky's answer was a noncommittal shrug, and I put two and two together. My partner's boyish-logic plus an endless supply of Krazy Glue equaled trouble.

I visualized our captain's food bonded to his lunch tray. His fingers adhered to his telephone, his pencil, his Hershey bar, even stuck in his hair. "Buddy," I said, waggling my fingers. "I think you better give me that."

"Get your own, Hutch."Starsky half chuckled, half groaned as he possessively stuffed the tube back into his pocket.

"Fine," I said, making sure not to slip up on my promise.

Starsky reached out a hand and ruffled my hair in thanks. He still had a mountain to climb, and I'd still be right behind him helping him fight every step of the way.

We continued to sit there in the police parking garage, staring at a spot. A spot that no longer made me shiver with fear but with laughter. I gently leaned into my best friend's side to watch his show. You wouldn't think folks would fall for 'the old money glued to the sidewalk' trick. We laughed and sipped our sodas as poor sucker after poor sucker tried to unstick the quarter.

We never said anything more about the bloodspot -- only winked at each other a lot.

The end.


End file.
